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Marianne Moore

The Scandal of Content: The Cutting Ball Theater’s ‘Tontlawald’

From left, Madeline H.D. Brown, Rebecca Frank, Liz Wand, Cindy Im, and Marilet Martinez in "Tontlawald" (photo by Annie Paladino)

In devised theater, rather than starting with an already written script and finished production design as you would in traditional theater, the company creates text, music, movement, and design elements together as they go through the rehearsal process. Though there’s no devised aesthetic that defines it like a genre, devised work tends to be more physical, to make more use of every skill each actor possesses (singing, dancing, playing musical instruments). There’s also a strong preference for adapted material among companies that make devised work—maybe because this kind of experimental collaboration is easier if you at least know the outlines of the story you’re trying to tell.

The inspiration for Cutting Ball’s first devised work, Tontlawald, is an Estonian fairy tale in which a girl runs away from her abusive stepmother to live in the Tontlawald, the forbidden ghost-forest. The inhabitants of the Tontlawald fashion a doll out of clay to take the girl’s place, and inside the doll they place a black snake. The doll goes back to the village and endures the stepmother’s cruel treatment, while the girl lives happily in the Tontlawald. One day when the stepmother goes too far, the black snake darts out of the doll’s mouth and bites her tongue, killing her instantly. The girl grows up, and in the course of things must leave the Tontlawald. She turns into a bird and flies away.

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Who’s Afraid of the Light?: The Cutting Ball Theater’s ‘Pelleas and Melisande’

Caitlyn Louchard (Melisande) and Joshua Schell (Pelleas) in Cutting Ball Theater’s "Pelleas and Melisande" (photo by Annie Paladino)

The Cutting Ball Theater’s production of Maurice Maeterlinck’s Pelleas and Melisande (translated by director Rob Melrose) exploits a long, narrow, catwalk-style stage (designed by Michael Locher) to set up intense relationships among the characters. In an early scene, Golaud (Derek Fisher), the prince of Allemonde, comes upon Melisande (Caitlyn Louchard) weeping by a spring. Melisande kneels over a small rectangular pool set into the stage floor while Golaud stands far away from her at the opposite end—this relationship, in different permutations, is revisited again and again. Charmed by her beauty and strangeness, Golaud marries Melisande and takes her to live with his family at their ancestral castle, where she falls in love with his younger brother, Pelleas (Joshua Schell).

In a wonderfully daring and silly piece of blocking, Melrose takes a “balcony” scene between Pelleas and Melisande and flips it 90 degrees, so that Pelleas climbing up the tower lies flat on his stomach, and Melisande leaning far out of the window sits with her legs stretched out in front of her. As Melisande hangs out of the window to speak with Pelleas, her hair falls out of the tower and covers his face; he clutches it and kisses it. The lovers are six feet apart, and it is the most sexual scene in the play. Louchard’s actual hair is pinned tightly to the back of her head, but the imaginary hair  tumbling from the tower is unchaste and unrestrained. It’s always falling into springs and out of windows—Pelleas cries, “All of your hair, Melisande, all of your hair has fallen from the tower!” It’s the words all of that carry such an erotic charge. It’s as if she’s naked, as if all of her clothes have fallen off.

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The American West, in Norway: Marius Amdam at Trondheim Kunstmuseum

Marius Amdam's "the great train robbery" (120 cm by 120 cm)

A dozen museums dot the city center in Trondheim, Norway. There’s the Museum of Decorative Arts, the Tramway Museum, and the Norwegian Resistance museum, which favors dioramas—plastic destroyers, cotton balls painted black. Downtown is a peninsula, tacked to the mainland with spidery bridges. Cranes swing out over the canals from the tops of boxy warehouses. The buildings, even the new ones, are all in the same style—wide and low painted clapboard boxes, in colors at once saturated and muted: poppy red, ocher, mustard, powder blue, and sage. It has a more vibrant art scene than you would expect in a city of about 175,000 souls: more galleries than you can shake a salted fish at. The current installation at Trondheim Kunstmuseum — “sacro e profano,” which in Italian means, of course, “sacred and profane” (in Norse it’d be hellig og profan) — comprises fifteen paintings and three sculptures by local artist Marius Amdam.

The first thing you notice as you begin to move about the installation is texture: Amdam’s not afraid of it. The second painting clockwise from the entrance, “stor våt hund i øyekroken” (“big wet dog in the corner of my eye,” according to Google Translate), depicts a skeleton dripping with gold jewelry. At the bottom of the panel is a crusted wad of black paint so thick it sticks out from the canvas like a shelf. The next panel, “just like honey,” is three-dimensional in a more subtle way. The canvas is three-quarters filled with a pale, feminine face, her expression vacant and almost moronic, like a still frame of Clara Bow or an anime princess. She wears an impressive, powdery-white, Marie Antoinette updo. Inky tears spill from her enormous eyes. At her throat, a chain of loops and whirls draws the eye downward and to the left. There’s something irresistible about the necklace—you can’t stop looking at it. From a distance it looks like old bronze; up close, you can see that the chain is made up of three-dimensional hoops of black, purple, orange, and mud-colored paint, washed with a thin coat of white that shows brightly against the turbulent colors beneath it, giving an overall look of burnished metal.

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Postcards from the Fringe: ‘Alvin Sputnik: Deep Sea Diver’ and ‘Swamp Juice’

From "Alvin Sputnik: Deep Sea Explorer" at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

Alvin Sputnik: Deep Sea Explorer, showing through August 28 at the Underbelly as part of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, takes place sometime in the near future. Global warming has caused sea levels to massively rise, and the remaining humans live in rickety stilt houses perched atop skyscrapers. The performance’s opening sequence shows our hero, Alvin Sputnik, at the bedside of his love, Elena. He sings her a simple song on his ukulele as her soul (a point of light) flies out the window and into the ocean. Alvin is despondent, until he sees an ad on television calling for volunteers to dive to the ocean floor on a dangerous mission, one with the potential to save humanity. With nothing to lose, he straps on a diving suit and heads down, hoping to find Elena.

Creator Tim Watts serves as narrator, puppeteer, actor and bard. Evoking the porthole of a submarine, a circular white screen at center stage is rendered alternately transparent or opaque, depending on where the light is coming from. At times animated sequences are projected onto the screen; sometimes we see Watts moving behind the screen, his face illuminated by a headlamp. By the same token, Alvin is portrayed in a variety of ways — sometimes as a cartoon, sometimes as a shadow behind the screen, sometimes as a puppet (or several different puppets), and sometimes by Watts himself.

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Postcards from the Fringe: Blind Summit Theatre’s ‘The Table’

From "The Table," Blind Summit Theatre's show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

At Blind Summit Theatre’s The Table, showing at Pleasance Dome through August 28 as part of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, a puppet explains the basic principles of Japanese tabletop puppetry.

Pacing back and forth on the white table serving as his stage — as his entire world—the nameless puppet demonstrates, and everyone can see,  how he is operated by three puppeteers—one for head and left hand (Mark Down, who also performs the voice), one for rump and right hand (Sean Garratt), and one for the feet (Nick Barnes). All three are on stage, fully visible, dressed in unassuming black. There are no strings in Bunraku puppetry; the puppeteers’ hands directly control the puppet, in this case a simple white cloth body and cardboard head fashioned to look like an old bearded man with tired eyes (at one point the puppet screams, “I have a backstory! I used to be a box!”). The face doesn’t move: the puppet’s eyes don’t roll back and forth in the manner of marionettes, the mouth doesn’t do that horrible nutcracker thing.

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Looking for Home: Miroslav Penkov’s ‘East of the West: A Country in Stories’

The title of Miroslav Penkov’s debut story collection, East of the West: A Country in Stories (Farrar, Straus & Giroux; 240 pages) is ironic, or maybe wistful —for Penkov’s characters, there is never “a” country. They are Bulgarian immigrants in America, Bulgarian American immigrants returning to Bulgaria, Bulgarians in a village straddling the Serbian border, Muslims in Bulgaria.

In 2008, Salman Rushdie selected “Buying Lenin,” the third story in the collection, for his edition  of Best American Short Stories. The atmosphere in East might remind you of Rushdie, but this isn’t magical realism. There’s nothing truly fantastic in Penkov’s work — the stories are not supernatural but heroic. They take place in a heightened reality, one where high deeds and grand gestures (like buying Lenin’s frozen corpse on Ebay and mailing it to your diehard communist grandfather back in the old country) are not only possible but commonplace. Penkov’s prose is heightened, too — lucid, passionate, and harsh. Incandescent images and violent declarations alternate with bitter sarcasm. But he has a bad habit — like a teenager slamming a door — of ending a paragraph or an internal section with something devastatingly dramatic.

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At Odds with the Family: Aurora Theatre Company’s ‘The Metamorphosis’

Alexander Crowther as Gregor Samsa in 'The Metamorphosis' at the Aurora Theatre in Berkeley.

The most heartbreaking moment in David Farr and Gísli Örn Gardarsson’s theatrical adaptation of The Metamorphosis (at the Aurora Theater, in its first professional American production) is at the beginning, when Gregor’s sister Grete (Megan Trout) discovers that Gregor’s shoes are still on the carpet. It is past seven o’ clock; Gregor should be long gone to work. The family stops short; they had just finished setting three tidy places for breakfast. They stare at the shoes in shared astonishment, bordering on horror. Even before Gregor’s repulsive transformation, his family is accustomed to eating without him. They are happiest when he isn’t there.

Kafka’s novella is told from the perspective of its main character — of Gregor’s family, we only know what we can overhear through the bedroom door. This new adaptation inverts that perspective, focusing on Gregor’s family. Aurora’s intimate space (set by Nina Ball) creates a feeling of stifling familial claustrophobia. A crowded living and dining area on ground level connects to Gregor’s bedroom by a poky set of stairs. The bedroom, open to the audience, is pitched at an angle towards the stage floor. On that first morning, Gregor (Alexander Crowther) struggles to get out of bed (the eight o’ clock train has my name on it!), sliding down the length of the bed frame and ending up in a heap at the footboard, cleverly suggesting the plight of an insect on its back.

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Strange Transformation: Shotgun Players’ ‘Care of Trees’

Liz Sklar and Patrick Russell in E. Hunter Spreen's "Care of Trees"

How do you tell the story of a woman’s transformation into a tree? What does that even look like, especially on stage? Does it happen by degrees — does she begin by becoming something more pliable, like a strand of ivy or a sapling, or an artichoke? Playwright E. Hunter Spreen, in Care of Trees (at Shotgun Players’ Ashby Stage through June 26), tells the story of budding arboriform Georgia Swift (Liz Sklar) by showing the distance Georgia must travel from her partner, Travis Dekalb (Patrick Russell), in order to fulfill her destiny. Illness becomes the metaphor (or the medium) through which Travis and Georgia, at first, understand what is happening, and the tension between them feels familiar and true — as they investigate first medical, then psychological, and finally spiritual causes for Georgia’s malaise, Georgia moves towards acceptance, and Travis feels abandoned.

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Fever Dreams: Roberto Bolaño’s ‘Between Parentheses’

Roberto Bolaño (courtesy of New Directions)

It’s a little embarrassing to recognize, when reading Between Parentheses (New Directions; 352 pages) a collection of Roberto Bolaño’s essays, speeches and newspaper columns, translated by Natasha Wimmer — not only how little one knows of Spanish-language literature, but how much more Bolaño knew of English-language and European literature. Yes, he was on intimate terms with Poe (who could be seen as Borges’ older brother from Baltimore — and Borges, writes Bolaño, “is or should be at the center of our canon”), but he could speak with equal authority on ancient Greek epic poetry, Provençal troubadours, and Snorri’s Edda. One emerges from Between Parentheses with the desire to read more — to read more Bolaño, to re-read Borges, to discover Nicanor Parra and Enrique Lihn and Carmen Boullosa.

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Tennessee Williams’ Bird-Girl of Glorious Hill: Theater Review

Beth Wilmurt, Marcia Pizzo, and Thomas Gorrebeeck in "The Eccentricities of a Nightingale"

The Eccentricities of a Nightingale, a lesser-known work by Tennessee Williams being staged by the Aurora Theatre Company in Berkeley, is the story of Alma Winemiller, the odd, intelligent daughter of the Episcopalian rector in the town of Glorious Hill, Mississippi. When the play opens, Alma’s attempts to fit in are driving her frantic, while even her most modest pleasures (organizing a cultural club, feeding the birds in the town square) make her an object of ridicule. Her father, Reverend Winemiller (played by Charles Dean), suffers continually under the burden of his mad wife and the scandal of her sister’s elopement with Otto Schwarzkopf and the Musee Mechanique. Alma (Beth Wilmurt) does her best to fulfill her mother’s duties and make “a life out of little accomplishments,” until thrown into crisis by her sudden attraction to the town’s most eligible bachelor, the young Dr. John Buchanan (Thomas Gorrebeeck), whose over-attentive mother (Marcia Pizzo) is determined Johnny should make a good marriage.

One of the most weirdly sexual moments in the play occurs when Alma tries to serve John a glass of eggnog; her fingers slip and the spoon is “completely submerged” in the liquid. She cannot abide the intimacy of dipping her fingers into the liquor to retrieve the spoon; the awkwardness of the moment nearly sends her into a panic attack before John offers to fish the spoon out with his “surgeon’s fingers.” In the end, Alma surprises us by understanding much more about her desires and her prospects than her artlessness and naivete would suggest.

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Lady Grey (in ever lower light) and Other Plays by Will Eno: Theater Review

Danielle O'Hare as Lady Grey

In Lady Grey (in ever lower light), one of three new short plays by Will Eno performed together by San Francisco’s Cutting Ball Theatre, the title character never introduces herself.  The only person mentioned by name in the piece is a little girl named Jennifer — because according to Lady Grey (Danielle O’Hare)  “a story needs a girl, and a girl needs a name.” As the piece develops and we learn of Jennifer’s difficult day at show-and-tell, we come to think of Lady Grey as the name given to a collection of verbal tricks designed to protect and conceal Jennifer.

At the beginning, the Lady’s monologue wanders. Sometimes she talks about Jennifer, sometimes about a man in a blue shirt, and sometimes she gently interrogates the audience (“all you beautiful white people”). Her discourse constantly reverses itself — she says something and then suggests it’s too trite, she makes herself vulnerable and then attributes lewd thoughts to her audience. She’s both tragic and completely untrustworthy; even empathy might be a trap. Continue reading

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Philip Connors: Fire Lookouts, Kerouac, and Thinking Like a Mountain

Fire Season, a first book from Philip Connors, is a memoir of the author’s summers as a fire lookout in New Mexico’s Gila National Forest. During fire season, Connors spends his nights in a Forest Service cabin and his days in a seven-by-seven-foot box atop a steel tower. He hikes, fishes, throws a Frisbee around with his faithful dog, plays endless games of cribbage. His only companions (apart from the musk deer and the occasional long-distance hiker) are literary — Gary Snyder, Jack Kerouac, Edward Abbey, Norman Maclean — all of them veterans of lookoutry. Connors records the day-to-day of one typical season (the book is organized like a journal, chapters headed April through August), remembers past summers and muses on nature and solitude, weaving in a surprisingly thorough discussion of conservation thought in America.

Connors will be touring the West Coast for his book from April 11 to April 14. (Find out more in our Other Events calendar.) He graciously answered ZYZZYVA’s questions via email, even though some of them were extremely impertinent.

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